


dust off your wings

by georgiabread (luminaryhowell)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Bugs & Insects, Fear, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Book 1: Carry On, baz is a bit of a softie in this one, because we stan subtext, can't believe i wrote over 2000 words about moths, for the girl on omegle who wanted me to write this, the moth is symbolic btw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 19:11:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21415228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminaryhowell/pseuds/georgiabread
Summary: Simon Snow used to slay dragons. Who would have thought he'd be afraid of moths?
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 8
Kudos: 74





	dust off your wings

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first snowbaz fic! a bit of a dumb concept but i managed to work in some plot, so that makes it meaningful, right?? anyway, my main goal with this was to develop my characterisation for simon and baz and explore simon's fear of things which, at first, may seem out of his control. following the events of carry on, he's lost most of his identity, and he fears the parts of him that are leftover - his wings, mainly. now he needs to learn to control and accept these parts of himself.

**SIMON**

I’m not saying I don’t care about the environment, but if all species of moths died out, I wouldn’t be upset about it. 

_I_ certainly don’t need them around. Especially when I’m half-asleep on the sofa watching _Lord of the Rings_. I might’ve had a nap. I know Penny’s studying in her bedroom and Baz – well, he left to get a drink (of blood) earlier, but I think he wanted to go home. I don’t expect him to come back. But now I can’t have that nap. 

Because there’s a ginormous moth – probably the size of my face – chilling on the wall below the window. I know it’s the size of my face because one time, a moth flew right into me while I was searching for Baz in the Catacombs. I had just swung my torch round a corner, and one of those manky sods hurled itself out of the dark and nearly went in my mouth. Screamed blue murder, I did, before I legged it to the exit.

Right now, I’m seriously considering doing the same thing. Realistically, I should just leave it alone. Or scoop it up and put it outside. Or kill it. If I still had magic, I could kill it. I was absolutely rubbish at casting spells, though – I’d probably create more moths.

I try to let _Lord of the Rings_ distract me, but the moth hovers in my peripheral vision like it’s a threat and I can’t loosen my shoulders. I can’t just leave it there. Merlin and fucking Morgana…

Frustration flares up in my chest, and suddenly I’m standing, the TV on pause. I pick an empty bowl from the floor (I ate all the salt and vinegar crisps) and scowl at this dastardly thing in my house. My feet won’t move me any closer, though. I feel awfully exposed without a shirt or shoes. Bugs are easier to fight when you’re wearing shoes, I reckon. 

I creep forward anyway, holding the bowl to my chest like a shield instead of the trap it’s supposed to be. The moth just sits there. All I need to do is get the dish on top of it, right? I can figure out the rest later. I sort of jerk towards it, but I don’t actually go all the way. Fuck, I’m not getting anywhere. I’m fucking useless. Why can’t I just –? 

I let out a sharp growl and launch the dish at the moth. And I miss it completely. The bowl clatters on the floor, and the moth jumps off the wall and right into my face _again_. I shriek, scrambling away, trying to strike it and then – well, I fucking vault over the sofa, don’t I? Wings flaring and everything. 

I look up after regaining my balance, and the moth is gone. 

That’s when I hear the squeal of the door hinge, and I swivel around. Baz is standing on the threshold, gaping. He looks like he just witnessed an attack from the Humdrum. There’s colour in his cheeks again. 

‘What the fuck just happened?’ he asks.

**BAZ**

Usually, I wouldn’t put it past Simon Snow to treat his furniture like hurdles. He’s boisterous. He’s a child with a sugar rush. And without his magic, he always needs an avenue to channel all that stifled energy. Just...not recently.

Recently, that energy has festered away in his bones, trapped and sweaty for as long as he’s spent lying on the sofa. It’s like he doesn’t want it to go anywhere. Like if he lets it escape, he’s losing his magic all over again. 

So, yes, it baffles me when I walk into the room to find him bouncing off the cushions and lifting empty snack packets in the thrust of his wings.

It’s nice to see colour in his cheeks, though. 

Snow crosses his arms over his bare chest and slouches awkwardly against the back of the sofa. He doesn’t look as nonchalant as he’s trying to be.

‘Baz,’ he says, messing with his already-dishevelled hair. ‘I thought you were going back to your apartment?’

I frown. ‘I told you I was getting a drink.’

‘Well, yeah. But I thought –’

I’m not having this conversation right now. ‘Can you answer my question? What did I just walk into?’

‘Oh – nothing. I just, um, I needed to stretch my wings.’ He sprawls them out across the air as if to drive his point home.

‘And you found it necessary to leap over the furniture?’

He nods a little too fast. Crowley, he’s thick.

‘Are you sure you weren’t rushed by a magickal creature or something?’ It’s likely – to some dark creatures, Simon’s sacrifice made him no less of an enemy.

‘Yes, I’m sure. I’m fine if that’s what you’re worried about,’ he scoffs. 

I catch the way his gaze sprints around the room. He’s clearly not fine. He’s on his guard, but for what, I’ve no idea. 

(It’s stupid, yet) I wonder if it’s me.

My jaw tightens, and I shrug off my coat to give my hands something to hold. ‘Well, I’m not worried, so I think I’ll –’

As I turn, something black quivers to my right. Before I can react, I realise it’s just a moth. Snow, however, hisses a bunch of curse words and flings himself to the far end of the sofa. 

‘Snow, what on earth?’ I follow his gaze, and the moth settles on a lampshade. ‘Oh.’ My eyebrow quirks. ‘So _that_ was the magickal creature threatening your safety.’ 

‘The – what?’ Snow splutters. ‘The _moth?_ Come on, that’s tosh. It wasn’t threatening me – I’m not – I don’t even –’

I’m smirking now. ‘You know they’re harmless, right? All they do is bump into walls.’

‘Of course I know. You’re acting like I’m bloody terrified of ‘em.’

‘Aren’t you?’

Snow juts his chin out, fists like dumbbells at his hips. ‘No,’ he spits.

‘No?’ I peer at him, sifting through all that heat and flinty resolve. He’s trying to make this a challenge. He’ll only admit defeat if I don’t take him up on it, so I shrug. ‘Alright. I’ll take your word for it,’ I say, slinging my coat over the sofa, meandering towards the armchair.

Snow’s tail thumps against his trackie bottoms as I collapse into the seat. I slide my phone out of my pocket and pretend to look distracted. The moth sits on the lamp. 

‘Baz,’ he says.

I settle deep into the grey cushions. 

‘Baz.’ Again, but louder. 

‘Hmm?’ 

‘Baz, I’m not –’ He huffs.

I glance up, and his eyes touch on the moth for half a second.

‘They just bother me,’ he finally pushes out. ‘They’re always flying around like they’re having a fucking fit, especially with those huge, noisy wings. Absolutely bonkers, they are. And they leave dust everywhere. I’m sick of it.’

I don’t smile, but the urge is fierce. ‘That’s an awfully strong vendetta against moths. Can’t you leave them to absorb their light in peace?’

‘If they’re so obsessed with light, why don’t they just fly into the fucking sun?’

‘They’re nocturnal, Snow,’ I deadpan. ‘Ever seen a moth during the day?’

He frowns like we’re back in Magic Words and I’ve just told him it’s **I couldn’t care less**, not **I could care less**. Then he looks at the moth again. ‘They probably wouldn’t be as scary if they came out at daytime,’ he mutters. 

‘So you _are_ afraid of moths,’ I announce, springing forward on an armrest. 

‘No, I just –’ Snow bristles. I can almost hear the words crashing together in his mouth before they burst out. ‘Okay. Yeah. I _am_ fucking afraid, alright? I’m scared of moths. Isn’t that a bloody laugh? Simon fucking Snow is afraid of bugs. You happy now?’

Cold guilt plunges down my spine. I dig my nails into the upholstery, and Snow’s heavy breathing loiters after his words. He’s watching the moth again. Crowley, I had no idea he would – I didn’t think it would be about _this_. 

I stand up, aiming for the kitchen, and Snow meets my eyes. ‘I can get rid of it, if you want,’ I say casually. 

He hesitates, and then shrugs.

Somewhere under the breakfast bar, there’s a cupboard stacked with plastics. I snatch a wide container. If I wanted to, I could easily send the moth outside with a teleportation spell and be done with it. But using magic in this apartment is like walking through a minefield – one misstep and Simon detonates. (Not like he used to, but that doesn’t mean there’s no collateral damage). 

‘I can understand where the fear comes from,’ I say, moving back towards the lamp. ‘They are a bit erratic.’

Snow shrugs again. ‘Yeah.’

‘Too bad humans invented electricity and ruined their flight paths.’

‘I thought light was good for them.’ 

‘Not artificial light – they need the moon to guide them. They’re quite similar to magickal moths, except those are about three times bigger.’

‘Oh, fuck.’

I can’t help giggling. ‘Relax, Snow. They feed on the dark instead of light, so you’ll only find them in caves and such.’ 

‘Oh. Right.’ He tugs on a thatch of hair, grinning sheepishly.

I roll my eyes. Simon Snow is an impossible wonder. He used to slay dragons. ‘Come here, you numpty,’ I say, shaking my head.

‘What?’

‘I said, come here.’

I’m standing by the lamp, open container at the ready. Simon’s wings, not quite tucked away, waver in the space around his arms as he inches towards me. 

‘Here, look. You have to be gentle.’ I sink the container around the moth and slide the lid underneath. Snow’s got his shoulders all bunched up, and he’s hissing, but the wings of the moth barely flutter as it clambers neatly into the box. 

I twist around, and my heart hits my ribcage. Snow’s closer than I realised. He smells like Pringles and dirty laundry, but I can feel his warmth, and I’ve missed it. I’ve missed him. I swallow, holding up the container. ‘Want to see?’ I murmur.

Snow grumbles in his throat before taking the plastic in his fingers. He’s giving the moth one of his move-once-and-I’ll-break-your-neck looks (not that moths have necks). But his wings ease around his shoulders. 

‘Why is the body so thick, though?’ he blurts. 

‘Crowley, enough with the harassment. The moth has done nothing to deserve this.’

‘It launched itself into my bloody face!’

‘That was your fault, I gather.’

‘It was _threatening_ me.’

‘Well, we’ve trapped it now. If you release it outside, you won’t be intimidated by its thick body ever again.’

‘Fuck off, Baz.’ There’s laughter in his voice as he turns away. He manages to reach the balcony before he hesitates. ‘So I just – what, I just chuck it over the railing?’

I stand at the door and watch him. Dusky wind catches in his curls, and they bounce across his forehead. His eyes are unsure, but his wings cradle his figure. He looks lovely. ‘You’re exactly right,’ I say.

‘But what if it flies back in?’

‘Trust me, it won’t.’

Snow nods, almost trying to convince himself. Then it happens in a rush: he tears off the lid, hurls the moth into the night, scampers off the balcony and shoves the door closed.

I raise an eyebrow.

‘What?’ he wheezes. ‘That was well easy.’

I can hear his blood churning. ‘I didn’t say it wasn’t.’

Snow perches himself on the arm of the sofa, and all the excess tension drains from his shoulders. His eyes fall shut. 

When they open, we’re left with something different. An old tension. The kind that sloshes around your ankles and ferments between your toes. I scrape my hair off my face, searching the room for my next words. 

Snow beats me to it. ‘Well, the moth’s gone. You should probably go home soon,’ he says. ‘It’s getting kinda late.’

His words dig right between my lungs. I try to meet his eyes, but he won’t look at me. ‘Do you want me to?’ I ask.

He swallows. 

And because she has a penchant for interrupting serious moments, Bunce gusts into the room like a hurricane and says, ‘Basil, you’re back! Are you staying for dinner? You might as well, I was going to make cheese toasties.’ 

(Snow suddenly looks interested.)

‘Although I need to finish studying first,’ Bunce goes on. ‘I just wanted to check in, ‘cause I heard some commotion earlier, but I don’t think it registered in my brain until just now.’

‘We’re okay, Bunce.’

‘We got attacked by goblins again.’

Bunce snorts, pushes her fingers up under her glasses and rubs her eyes. ‘Okay. I’m going back under. Don’t hurt yourselves.’ 

She closes the door when she leaves.

I look at Snow. ‘Does she know about –?’

‘No. Shut up.’

‘Hold on – I’m the first person you’ve told. This is new for you.’

Snow groans sharply and drops back into the sofa. ‘D’you ever get tired of being such a sod?’ he mutters.

‘Of course not. That’s my only desirable trait.’

He scoffs and I sink into the cushions beside him. He’s frowning at the ceiling.

I want to sweep my fingers through his curls. I think he’d let me. ‘Hey. You’re allowed to be frightened of things, you know,’ I murmur, brushing his fringe out of his eyes. ‘Even things that don’t seem frightening. I think it would be somewhat unfair if you weren’t.’

There’s a trail of silence before Simon pushes himself upright. He gnaws on his bottom lip. And then he asks, ‘What are you scared of?’

I turn and gaze at him, all of him. There’s so much of Simon Snow left behind, and yet there’s almost nothing. I know exactly what I’m scared of. I’m drowning in it. 

‘Wasps,’ I say.

He huffs out a laugh. ‘That’s fair.’

Our shoulders are touching. I want to touch more of him – his hands, his face, his lips. I’m not sure he’d let me. 

Instead, I turn my eyes to the TV. ‘What are you watching?’ I ask.

‘_The Fellowship of the Ring_,’ he says.

‘Oh, Merlin. What part are you up to?’

‘Gandalf’s trapped in the tower. I think he’s trying to make the eagles come save him – by talking to a fucking moth.’

I snicker. ‘Would you talk to a moth to save me?’ I ask.

‘Nah. Already got wings, haven’t I?’ Simon gives me a half-smile, and he’s always been right here. His ankle knocks gently against mine. ‘I’ll save you myself.’

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!! <3 
> 
> headcanons:
> 
> \- baz reads endless wikipedia articles just because he likes learning things, so naturally he knows an abnormal amount about moths  
\- simon's lancashire dialect comes out when he's stressed/angry  
\- simon froths lord of the rings


End file.
